


Roy is an outlier and must not be counted

by ang3lba3



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Alphonse is a pranky little shit, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Chef Edward Elric, Fluff and Crack, Food Critic Roy Mustang, Gen, Pre-Slash, language that could be considered mildly ableist: see AN, meet cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-11-03 21:10:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20667440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ang3lba3/pseuds/ang3lba3
Summary: Roy is a popular food critic with a dark secret - cilantro tastes like soap. Edward is a chef with a cilantro themed restaurant that's getting plenty of headlines about his personality, and few headlines reviewing the food. Mustang tries to wiggle out of the assignment... but some things can't be wiggled out of without a good reason.





	Roy is an outlier and must not be counted

**Author's Note:**

> about the possibly mildly ableist language: Roy refers to his cilantro soap gene at one point as a 'disability' (though passingly) and someone calls him a basket case at another point. 
> 
> about the preslash & roy/ed tag: there's not really royed in the story, but i am a royed shipper and this is a meet cute for them! i figured i'd tag it pre-slash so you shippers know the content is pretty small for them, but so that anyone who wants to avoid royed doesn't subscribe to this.. i doubt i'll write more, but i didn't think i'd even write this, so it doesnt kill to play it safe.

Roy is a popular food critic. If he was a braver man, he might even describe himself as a  _successful_ food critic. But he is always intimately aware that he’s chosen a profession with failure built in, at least for him. 

He can remember it like it was yesterday, when he realized he wasn’t like other food critics. When he realized he was different, an outsider. 

Mr Hawkeye had prepared dinner. He was teaching Roy to recognize different spices, to understand the ways they complimented each other. He’d labored over this soup for hours, showing Roy every step of the preparation, every meticulous way he’d plated it. Mr Hawkeye believed that the only way to be a food critic was to understand food, down to its molecules, and the presentation, down to every artistic splatter. Even if he couldn’t make Roy a chef - that would take a miracle - he could make him comprehend. 

Roy took a sip of the soup as Mr Hawkeye turned away, just for a moment, and so he was able to control his face by the time he’d turned around again. Not quick enough to stop Mr Hawkeye’s daughter Riza from seeing - but enough time to stop himself from visibly flinching in front of his mentor.

“It’s a unique combination of flavors,” he said honestly. “I can really taste the cilantro.”

And he could. It’s just that the cilantro tasted like soap. 

***

Statistically Superb. The restaurant everyone’s buzzing about. The restaurant Roy, statistically, will think is  _ not  _ superb. 

People aren’t buzzing about the menu, really, the bold choice to make cilantro the center of every dish and most specialty drinks. No, that’s just the fun gimmick, the theme. What people are  _ really _ buzzing about is the bizarre service and the even more absurd owner.

Edward Elric, a scientist who can be described less through terms like ‘meteoric rise’ and ‘star’ and more by the term ‘inconceivably genius black hole meticulously pulling away the foundations of modern science and rewriting them with impeccable proof that almost makes up for his personality’ has opened… a cilantro themed restaurant. A strange venture, but he has approximately all the money a scientist could ever expect. It’s expected he’ll make some strange ventures.

What’s not expected is that he’ll set himself up as head chef. Or that when people request refunds, he informs them that refunds are only offered to those who can defend a thesis on why they deserve one. Or that the restaurant will be  _ wildly successful _ . 

No one’s talking about the food, is the problem. They talk about the strange atmosphere, the way it’s like going to a show. They don’t talk about the food.

And that’s why Roy gets asked to go. Berthold Hawkeye mentored someone who can shut out even the most absurd of distractions or health code violations, and report on  _ merely _ the food and prices. Roy’s gone to restaurants where the servers are known for spitting on their customers if they order the wrong dish. He gave the ravioli there a 3 out of 5, because “it’s clearly just Chef Boyardee out of a can. However, if you enjoy that, bulk buys such as this restaurant can afford mean that this is actually cheaper than getting it for yourself at the store. Add in as much fresh parmesan as you can physically grate on top, and you’re gaining money.”

In the past, Roy’s gotten around this disability of his by bringing Riza as quality control. The only other person aware of his secret, he could depend on her to tell him if it was real dish soap he was tasting. The only other person who spent a considerable amount of time with the unpleasant Berthold Hawkeye, he could trust her to give the kind of report he would. 

But Riza’s on vacation, and a story like Edward Elric’s won’t stay in the headlines forever. It’s too strange, with not enough room to escalate. The iron is hot, and he must strike the keys before it cools. Or something.

He asks around the magazine headquarters, seeing if anyone will accompany him. No one will in the food section, especially not without a good reason to ruin their evening with a dramatic dining experience. Finally, someone just snaps at him to ask Alphonse, since the intern working in animal photography is known for being nice to “even total basket cases”. 

It takes some begging. It takes a lot of begging. It takes begging that might have come out kind of strange, now that he’s really thinking about it, and Alphonse had cackled in a really concerning way when he finally agreed and Roy told him the name of the restaurant they were to meet at.

But the night is here, and the time is now. Roy is sweating. 

Alphonse is looking incredibly sharp in his double breasted waist coat, and is being mildly flirtatious. Roy didn’t even change out of his work clothes, and now he’s sweating  _ even more _ on top of what has already been a rather fear-sweat inducing day.

He thinks he might accidentally be on a date. Why did he phrase it like "You're the only person I can imagine going to this with, please, I'm begging you to give me one night of your time”? What way could Alphonse have interpreted that, and Roy actually getting on his knees, other than a desperately in love man’s pleas?

And why would Alphonse say yes to such an incredibly desperate query other than because he felt something?

Alphonse is nice! A lovely young man! But he is everyone’s little brother, and Roy honestly didn’t think he was inclined towards men at  _ all _ . And even if Roy didn’t feel a gaping absence where attraction of any kind could rest, there’s ethical concerns what with him being a senior writer and Alphonse an unpaid intern. Even if they’re not in the same section. 

Oh God, okay, yeah. Those are pit stains he’s developed. Right through his undershirt, button up, and black suit jacket. Roy presses his arms down to his sides and tries to remember not to raise them.

They're brought to their table by a friendly young woman with blonde hair. Al makes easy banter with her, effortlessly recalling her name while Roy tries to recall how to put one foot in front of the other.

The table is in a nice section, near enough to the kitchen that he can hear the distant roar of the chef's voice, but just far enough he can't make out the words. Roy doesn't usually take note of details like these, actually goes out of his way  _ not to, _ but he's not sure what he's going to say about the food besides 'better than home cooking!' This is always an honest statement, because Aunt Chris couldn’t cook worth a damn and neither can he.

"Why do you think it’s called Statistically Superb?" he asks once the waitress has abandoned them with glasses of water to peruse the menu. He’s asking for small talk reasons, and because there's a glint in Alphonse's eyes that makes him deeply uncomfortable. It's almost predatory. 

"Oh! Well, I'm sure you know this, being such a foodie, but a small amount of the population has a genetic quirk that makes cilantro taste like soap," Alphonse leans forward, and Roy leans back so far he almost tips his chair over. "Edward makes amazing food, but only statistically. He'll get five star reviews from almost everyone, forever, but there's always going to be a percentage to whom it tastes like the dishes were poorly rinsed."

"And he chose...to build a restaurant with failure and dissatisfaction guaranteed in some customers?" Roy asks, because that is honestly either genius or terrible. 

"Yes, it's very weird. But I'm afraid that's just how Brother's mind works - if he can't prevent failure entirely, he'll control where it comes from," Alphonse says. Roy's entire brain grinds to a halt.  _ Brother? _ "This also means, of course, that some critics will hate his food."

"Hahahaha??!" Roy says, loudly. It should have been 'laughs, loudly'. He wishes he had laughed loudly. There's a lot to unpack in what Alphonse just said and he's not really sure where to start. Sweat drips down his mouth, stinging the bit of his lip he's been chewing on this entire night. "What critic would go into the food business if they're genetically predisposed to hate a major spice? That would be nonsensical! Absurd! It would be like setting yourself up to fail a small percentage of the time, always! It would be-"

The door to the kitchen slams open, and a man stomps over, cutting Roy off mid-babble. 

"YOU!" the golden eyed man is wearing a chef's hat, presumably of normal size, but his height makes it seem like a cartoon chef's hat, increasing his height comically. "WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING?"

"...me?" Roy asks. That gleam in Alphonse's eyes no longer looks merely flirtatious. He can see clearly now that it was the reflection in an arsonist's eye when they stand back to enjoy the roaring blaze. The reflection of Roy's night going to hell, seen and understood long before Roy began to experience it.

"YEAH, YOU!" the man is Edward Elric. It’s rather obvious, even with how slow Roy’s brain is with betrayal. The one thing reviews held in common was some type of comment on the surprising lung capacity stuffed in such a narrow torso, even if the chef’s hat wasn’t a dead giveaway. "YOU'RE MY BROTHER'S BOSS, AND YOU PRESSURE HIM INTO A DINNER DATE? HE'S NOT EVEN PAID. AND THEN YOU  _ DARE _ TO COME TO  _ MY ESTABLISHMENT-" _

"It's not a date! I swear it's not a date!" Roy says, waving his arms in a wide X motion. 

"It's not?" Alphonse gasps, clutching his chest, eyes glittering with tears. 

"Uh," Roy says.

"Oh my God, why are you sweating so much?" Chef Elric asks. "Jesus Christ, stop waving it around, there's not enough deodorant in the world."

Roy slams his arms back to his sides. He refuses to look around at the rest of the restaurant. Regardless, he can see at least two people filming. There is an unnatural hush, and he hears a waitress shush someone trying to give their drink order on the other side of the room. 

"Why would you ask me here if it wasn't for a date, Mr. Mustang? You said it was so essential that I came with you, that you would just simply die if I couldn't accompany you tonight." Al sniffles. Roy can honestly not tell if it's for dramatic effect, because his entire chest is crumpling with guilt over having made Alphonse that upset...even if it's fake. 

(It's almost definitely fake.)

Alphonse wipes his eyes, spots of color high in his cheeks, shoulders shaking a bit.

"Well," Roy says. Stops. He looks at Chef Elric.

"Don't look at me for help, you absolute jackass," he says. His arms are crossed and he's scowling. "What the hell is this about?"

"Your restaurant is...statistically... superb." Roy takes a deep breath, rubs the back of his neck. "I... might be... an outlier, you could say."

Chef Elric's face turns red, and then redder, and Roy prepares himself to be murdered on the spot, but then he starts  _ laughing. _ Alphonse joins in, and it becomes clear that it was suppressed mirth and not suppressed heartbreak that was written on his body. 

"And you asked Al?!?" Chef Elric howls.

"I told him! I tried to say no! But he begged! He offered me photos of Hayate in silly costumes he'd pay for!" Al manages to get out through high pitched laughter. 

"What?" Roy says blankly. His head is empty and spinning. They're laughing at him. He'd told his biggest secret and they're laughing at him, but not at the  _ secret. _ What is he missing?

The brothers are too busy laughing at him to answer. A blonde waitress takes pity on him, and edges over to whisper, "Cilantro tastes like soap to Al. I'm sorry, but this entire restaurant is a very long in-joke that somehow turned into a profitable business and now we're all trapped."

Roy slowly lets his head lower onto the table. He hadn't gotten a chance to order anything yet, so when his face drops into food it's just the cilantro crusted bread sticks. At least it smells clean. 

"I'll get you some pizza from next door, how does that sound?" the waitress says. Roy wants to look at her name tag, because she is the only part of this experience that isn't mocking him right now, and he needs to thank her prominently in his review. 

His first review that will not explain 'but how's the food?', because even the strongest man can be broken by the Elrics.

**RESTAURANT DEEMED CILANTRO HELL IS STATISTICALLY SURPRISING.**

**Roy Mustang & Alphonse Elric**

**Photos by Winry Rockbell**

I’m famous for remaining objective and detached in my reviews. When a reader sees Mustang on the byline, they know that they’re going to hear about the food. If they’re concerned about the atmosphere or the health inspector rating, they’ll have to go somewhere else. 

But even the most objective of writers can be broken by something they cannot help but take subjectively. That is why I have recruited my dinner companion on that most significant night, and the waitress who caught most of it on film - perhaps you have seen it on Youtube, along with the other 5 million people who enjoyed  **FOOD CRITIC’S WILL TO LIVE DESTROYED BY TWO BROTHERS** \- I feel that they have important, if equally biased, parts of the story to tell...  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> a solid chunk of this was written in discord to a live audience. since it was mostly done i figured... hey! why not finish it, give it a an actual beginning and an end and a quick edit!
> 
> it's incredibly absurd. i had so much fun with it, and i hope anyone who read did too :D  
find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/cryingiscooltm)


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